


Impossible to fall in love with

by PudentillaMcMoany



Series: Political Arrangements [1]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slash, childermass works for the union of magicians, lascelles is a tory mp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 11:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6608932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PudentillaMcMoany/pseuds/PudentillaMcMoany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which things are said that are not really meant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impossible to fall in love with

**Author's Note:**

> This was prompted to me by the wonderful  vicivefallen  on Tumblr. It was a meme about love declarations, and the prompt for this was "without really meaning it". I've deviated a little bit from it!

“You’re late.”

“Bloody traffic.” He enters the house deliberately, as if he belongs there; drops his helmet on the pristine parquet and shrugs off his bright yellow vest, hanging it on top of the beautiful fur coat of Lascelles’s wife. Lascelles wrinkles his nose in distaste at that, which Childermass likes. “How long do we have?”

“One hour and... Thirty-three minutes now, thanks to _bloody_ _traffic_.”

“Will make it last,” sniggers Childermass, already tugging at the hem of his sweater.

“I’m _sure_ you will,” huffs Lascelles, eyebrows raised in a mocking expression that Childermass likes as well, as it makes him want to punch him.

He lets his sweater drop on the floor in retaliation, liking how it makes Lascelles’s small face all crunched and _pointy_ , how it seems as if he would really want to smack him.

He would like it, to be smacked, he thinks, while he follows Lascelles through the corridor to his bedroom, letting his belt fall with a sharp clang on the floor. He sees Lascelles’s lean straight back tense, and then, when he turns, his round brown eyes becoming slits in his fury. He likes that too.

When they are in the room Lascelles closes the door behind them, locks it with a double turn of key even if there is no one else in the house, there is never anyone else, and they will be alone for another hour and- it’s _thirty-one_ minutes now, because Lascelles is accurate and he’s always double-checking his schedules and he would never let anyone discover this secret thing they have, which Childermass, in a way, likes as well, this effectiveness that Lascelles has. For example now he’s taking a few deliberate steps towards him, and Childermass likes that he moves so beautifully, so economically, sharp like his blue suit, measured and cruel, but _effective_. He wants to- not _defile_ him, it’s not the right word, because Lascelles is the farthest thing from pure that could conceivably exist, but maybe to taint that perfection, that air of loftiness around him; so he reaches for Lascelles’s tie, and he tugs at it so that he can kiss him while he undoes the knot, gently slip it away, and then his jacket, which he drops the floor.

“That cost more than you earn in a month.”

“Well. Yes. Pity,” grins Childermass, eyebrows cocked up at him. He takes care to remove his boots in the most undignified way possible, comically balancing on one leg, tossing his rolled-out socks across the room. For a minute, there, it does look like Lascelles will strike him after all.

He doesn’t, which is a pity, but he does take off his patent leather brogues, and places them very primly and very symmetrically in front of the bed, and then his socks (Childermass doesn’t especially like that) and  then he looks at Childermass with something of the predator (he likes that better) and hooks his long fingers around his belt loops (he likes that even better), and drags him to the bed and onto him (he loves that, and the way that, when he licks Lascelles’s neck just so, he lets him slip his trousers off and leave them in a crinkled heap on the floor along with his freshly-pressed, laundry-fragrant crisp white shirt).

Childermass loves that Lascelles is so nasty, really, impossible to fall in love with; but he loves his lean body and his wicked mind, and his sleek house and his slick mouth, into which he sinks his prick from above him, hands pressed on the wall, head bowed down so he can watch Lascelles slowly and painstakingly take him, inch by inch with his eyes screwed shut and his mouth very wet, the gentle graze of his beard on Childermas’s balls which should not feel by any right as good as it feels, but he _loves_ this, Jesus, and he-

“I love this,” he stammers, his tights gently shaking already, and: “I love you,” which is not what he had meant to say at all, and Lascelles freezes with his prick still in his mouth, and lets it out with his small wet mouth downcast, and he says: “What the fuck” with his beautiful aristocratic voice that Childermass very much loves, but not now, maybe.

“No you don’t,” continues Lascelles, slithering against the headboard so that his eyes are on a level with Childermass’s, so that he can pull his hair and breathe on his lips when he spits out: “Pathetic.”

 


End file.
